


The Pricking of Thorns

by Snowgrouse



Series: Of Roses Unfurling [2]
Category: Original Work, Thief of Bagdad (1940), كتاب ألف ليلة وليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights, كتب الف ليلة و ليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Anal Sex (female receiving), Androgynous male character, Androgyny, BDSM, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Caning, Crossdressing, Culture with casual male bisexuality, Dark Het, Dominant Male Character, Established Relationship, F/M, Female Ejaculation, Foreplay, Genderbending, Held Down, Heroine/Villain, Heterosexual Anal Sex (female receiving), Historical, Long foreplay, Lube, Married Couple, Master/Servant, Master/Slave, Older Man/Younger Woman, PWP, Period Attitudes Towards Sexuality and Gender, Persia, Queer Het, Rimming, Roleplay, Romance, Rough Sex, Sexual Roleplay, Submissive Female Character, Tenderness, Tent Sex, The Thousand And One Nights - Freeform, heterosexual anal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:10:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That night in their tent, he takes her like a boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pricking of Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel/epilogue to [Of Roses Unfurling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/508947). And much, much kinkier. Had to post this separately for that reason. Medieval Persian culture, especially among the upper classes, was almost as big on homoromanticism as the ancient Greeks were, and there are historical records of girls sporting tomboy fashions ( _ghulamiyyat_ , "page-girls") in the early 800s because of this. And we go from there. (The more or less worksafe illustration is by myself.)

They ride towards Baghdad together, she disguised in the garments of a boy.

He presses his arms to her sides and tucks his chin over her shoulder. "You make a very fetching pageboy, my love." 

She leans back against his chest. "I quite like it. I could start a new fashion, perhaps." 

He chuckles. "Before you were born, there was a caliph with a harem of tomboys. His mother was so worried about his preference for boys that she made all the maidens dress like youths, in hopes of producing an heir."

"Did it work?"

Jaffar's whisper is hot against her ear. "He would take them like boys."

***

That night in their tent, he takes her like a boy. 

She has agreed to this, yet she tenses in shame, in arousal, in fear as she stands in the middle of their tent, Jaffar stalking around her, devouring her with his eyes.

He'd teased her with hints of sodomy for weeks, ever since their honeymoon, and she'd imagined, oh, she'd imagined it ever since. On some evenings, she had even prepared herself just in case, rinsed herself out while at the baths, stretched herself with oiled fingers. She would open herself up with two, sometimes three fingers, panting against the marble floor and imagining his weight upon her, his cock stretching her, her moans echoing off the tiles as she would slip her other hand to her clitoris and rub herself to completion. 

But every evening, he would steadfastly ignore her, on purpose. He could see, feel what she'd done, smell the oils on her, but he would make love to her the regular way and but change the subject if she brought it up. Sometimes, he would take her from behind and brush his thumb over her anus, just as she was close, to make her come even harder over his cock. And every day, he would _smirk_ at her, let his hand glide along the curve of her buttocks when she would walk past and leave illustrated books of boy-love open in their bedroom for her to discover. He would invite Abu Nuwas over for cups of wine, knowing full well Yassamin would be observing them from behind the courtyard lattice and hear Nuwas describing his latest sexual conquests, in his usual explicit detail. Nuwas would leer and eulogise the sweetness of boys' cocks and arses in the manner of heroic poetry, and Jaffar would but glance in her direction over the brim of his cup and smile.

The day she'd heard they would be travelling to Baghdad, she knew what he had been waiting for, and knew the wait would soon be over. The custom of royal ladies being to travel disguised as boys, the thought had both thrilled and terrified her. As her maids had dressed her in a turban, a close-fitting tunic and a boy's shalwars, she'd twitched a little at their touch, her body tense, buzzing with arousal. When she'd stepped out into the courtyard with the bold gait of a youth, a dagger tucked into her sash, presenting herself to her husband, Jaffar had taken a step back to admire her. Running his eyes over her from head to toe, as if contemplating in which order to divest her of her garments, he'd then insisted they share the same horse. When the servants had lifted her to sit in front of him, she could feel he was hard against her back.

And here she stands in their tent, a different person entirely, not a newly crowned queen but a young pageboy brought to meet his new master. Jaffar glides around her like a shadow, his smile flashing white in the dim light. His clothes are still dusty from travel, and he taps his riding cane against his leg.

"My, my, aren't you a pretty young lad." He lifts her chin with the sharp tip of his cane and observes her, leaning closer, his eyes slitted with the delight of the play. "If I didn't know better, I would've thought you a girl."

[ ](http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Fakes/thoughtyouagirlcolournew.png)

Her pulse is pounding in her ears, her arms stiff at her sides. He drags the tip of the cane down her neck to the open chest of her tunic, tapping there. "I'm in need of a personal servant. Would you like to serve me, boy?"

She swallows, her tongue dry in her mouth. "Yes, master."

He drags the cane down her tunic, down, then sits down on the floor amidst a bed of cushions, letting the cane linger just near her groin. "Such obedience. I like that in a boy. Now, come here. Take off my boots." 

"Yes, master." She stumbles as she kneels at his feet, her hands shaking as she unbuckles the straps of his short boots and pulls off the leather socks attached to them, then the silk socks underneath. She looks up at him, asking for approval with her eyes, daring to massage his feet a little, the way she normally does when he comes home after a long day spent on horseback. 

He strikes her fingers with his cane, _hard_. The sting is unbelievable; she whimpers in pain as she puts her fingers to her mouth, tears prickling in her eyes. That Jaffar should use the cane on her makes a shiver of terror run down her spine, as does the cold, cruel smile he regards her with. 

"When I want your touch, I shall ask for it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master. I am sorry, master." Her head is spinning with pain and arousal, her shalwars riding up between her legs as she kneels, and she's wet. Oh, she is wet, blushing with shame, stuttering. "How may I serve you, master?"

He leans forwards, lifts her chin with two of his fingertips and kisses her softly, as if to remind her that this is a game, that she can stop any time she likes. When he pulls back, his eyes are warm once more. "Undress me."

It's surprisingly difficult for her to maintain her distance as she does so. Usually, she takes her time to remove his clothes with tenderness and care, making it a part of their lovemaking. Every night, as she undoes his turban, she makes a point of kissing and caressing his hair. Now, she only manages to stop herself at the last minute, her lips almost brushing his temple. He casts her an amused glance from the corner of his eye.

"Hurry up, boy." 

She returns to her task with as much cool efficiency as she can muster. "I'm sorry, master." 

Finally, she has undressed him and sighs with relief as she folds the last of his clothes away. "Shall I bring your nightshirt, master?"

He sprawls more comfortably on the pillows, proudly displaying his erection, the cane resting over his thighs. He glances at her from underneath his brows and shakes his head, smiling. "Bring wine." 

As she busies herself with the sifting and mixing of the wine, she wonders how many boys he really has had like this. The thought of him sporting with pretty lads, hurting them and kissing them, fucking them should make her jealous, but instead, the images inflame her lust even further. She holds the cup out to him with both hands and bows, to hide the flush of arousal on her cheeks. He is clearly enjoying the game, tutting at her, tapping her knee with the cane.

"No, no, no. Not that way. First, take that turban off." He strokes her cheek, and he can clearly see it's burning; that only makes him smile all the more. "Wine is best enjoyed with a pretty boy in one's lap, his curls hanging free."

She does as she's told and he gazes at her with approval, balancing her in his lap as she offers the cup to his lips. "Much better. Think of this as a part of your education. If you're a fast learner, we'll make a vizier out of you yet." He takes a sip and entwines his fingers in her hair, pulling her into a wine-drenched kiss. She cannot help but moan into his mouth and she wonders if he can smell her, if he can feel the wet patch on her shalwars against his bare thigh.

He takes another sip, followed by another kiss, and this time, he _bites._ She jerks and screams into his mouth in surprise, spilling the wine all over his chest. _He did that on purpose,_ she thinks as he curses, pushes her off himself and gets to his feet. He towers over her, planting his foot on her chest, her pulse thundering underneath its pressure as he leans forwards. He raises his cane and flicks it, making it whistle through the air. She stops breathing, staring up at him, frozen underneath his weight. 

"Insolent boy," he hisses. "It's as if you _want_ to be punished."

She is terrified, yet knows he is asking her a question, giving her a chance to stop the game, to pull back before she's in too deep. She thinks, frantically, his foot crushing the air out of her lungs. As he makes the cane whistle again with a flick of his wrist, she clenches with violent arousal, as if he was inside of her already. She can feel herself dripping, down, down over her hole, and she knows there is no turning back. Her mind may have second thoughts, but her body wants it, screams for it, lusts after it to the exclusion of all else. He would never give her pain unless she requested it, nor would he ever give her anything she could not take.

So she closes her eyes, lies down flat on the floor and murmurs, as if in prayer: "Yes, master."

For a second, two, three, it is utterly silent in the tent. Then, he draws in a shaking breath through his nostrils, his pupils wide with lust, and takes his foot off her chest. 

"Lower your drawers and lie face down on the bed. Do it," he barks when she hesitates. 

With shaking fingers, she undoes the knot on her shalwars, and it seems to take forever. She can feel his eyes burning her back, can hear his breathing. She's never known him like this, never truly seen the beast he had hinted of on their wedding night. She lies down on the bed, her shalwars lowered only just so to expose her buttocks, her legs pressed together to preserve the illusion of a boy's rump. She closes her eyes, presses her face to the bedcovers and waits, trembling like a leaf.

He kneels beside her, the silk of the bed rustling as he settles his weight on the mattress, dropping a bottle of oil next to where she can see it. To her surprise, the first touch she receives is that of his lips; a tender kiss on her lower back. "Such beautiful buttocks you have." He caresses them with his hand. "It will be a shame to mark them, but as I'm sure my future vizier knows, one cannot afford to be lax where matters of discipline are concerned."

And without warning, he delivers the first blow, making her scream and press into the bed. She shakes with the pain, gasping for air. She can hear the smile in his voice as he leans over to murmur in her ear.

"You're but a boy, so I will let you off with five. That was number one." 

He delivers the next two strokes in quick succession, crisscrossing her buttocks, and they sting so much she is weeping openly, dizzy from pain, begging for mercy. She bunches the sheets with her fists, trembling, and yet so wet and so swollen the arousal hurts almost as much as the caning. 

"Only two more." He strokes her buttocks with his hand, and she can hear the hitch in his breathing as he sees, smells just how wet she is, can hear his hiss as he pulls back, struggling to keep himself in check. "Are you going to be a brave boy for me?"

She is too far gone to form words; she but nods.

With a low snarl, he hits her once, twice, so hard she screams into the bed, shaking all over, spasming from the pain. Dimly, she can hear the cane hit the floor and then his hands are on her buttocks and his mouth, his _mouth is on her arse._ He claws at her buttocks, worships there, covers them in hungry kisses and licks, turning her screams into moans. He devours her arse, his chin pressed into the slit of her cunny but he never licks there, only spreads her with his thumbs and laps at her hole. She tries to spread her legs to make him pay attention to all of her, but he stabs an oiled finger into her arse and _twists,_ pinning her hips into the bed. 

"I'm going to fuck you."

She moans into the pillows, rutting her hips against the bed, hunting for the friction she needs, but it's useless. He prepares her roughly, pushing cold oil inside her arse with his fingers, panting himself as he takes her with them, his erection hard against her thigh. He grabs her hair with his other hand. "Now what do you say to that? Would you serve me like a good boy ought to serve his master?"

"Please, master."

"'Please, stop,' or 'please, can I have some more?'" he croons, straddling her, rubbing his oiled cock between her buttocks.

She swallows, dizzy from how much she needs him just like this, how she needs this violation, needs it in the very depth of her being. All of her calls out to him, rushes out to be consumed by him. "Please." She arches her hips, the way she's seen lewd street boys do when tempting rich patrons to the seedier bathhouses. "Let me serve you."

"Now, there's a good boy. Open up for me." 

He starts to push inside of her and it's nothing like his fingers. It _hurts._ She cries out into the pillows in pain, her head pushed down by his oily hand in her hair, and oh, it hurts. She freezes in pain, cramping against the intrusion, genuinely afraid something will tear. Cold sweat prickles upon her skin, and she thinks she might be sick.

"Please. Mercy." 

With a frustrated groan, he pulls out of her and tuts. "Typical young lad. One whose eyes are bigger than his--well." He presses his face into her back, panting with the effort not to take her. She cannot decide which discovery shakes her more, that of the beast within him or the restraint he is capable of and willing to exercise in order not to truly hurt her. As much as his cruelty arouses her, it's his capacity for tenderness that leaves her breathless.

"Come here," he says with a softer voice, breaking character slightly. He pulls her into his arms, undressing her, spooning her from behind, kissing her neck gently until her breathing evens. He is warm against her, his cock pressed against her arse, but he isn't forcing himself in. He lets her stay there, rest against him, his hand rubbing soothing circles over her stomach as she slowly wills herself to relax. "My beautiful boy."

Gently, he applies more oil, massaging her inside with his fingers, stretching her with a shallow, lazy fuck. The oil smells of malva and musk, and never will she be able to pass a flowering mallow without thinking of this night. By the time he presses his cock to her arse again, she is burning with the need to have him inside her. She slips her hand between her legs and strokes herself, rocking back onto his cock, taking deep breaths. It still hurts a little, her body fighting being stretched like this, impaled like this. But he slips his hand underneath hers and starts to meet her movements, pressing on her clitoris, rolling his hips slowly. 

"That's it." His voice is soft with emotion as he strokes her, sliding in and out of her now, a little deeper, a little wider with each push and pull. "You feel wonderful." He kisses her shoulder. "So wonderful."

His words uncoil a glowing warmth inside her belly but involuntarily, her body still stiffens, trembles as he moves within her, fights the slow, slow thrusts in and out. It is then that he pushes in as far as he can with a groan deep in his chest, the stretch unbearable, so overwhelming she sobs and sobs, yet with her eyes dry, well beyond tears. He stays there, hushing her gently, keeps holding her until the spasms subside, until the pain is gone and only the sweet fullness remains. 

"Keep breathing."

She breathes in, breathes out half a dozen times, and it is then that the fullness starts to blossom into pleasure. The resisting muscles surrender their fight, the pain fading away to reveal nerve clusters of exquisite sensitivity within her, pleasure spots she never even knew existed. He moves inside her but a fraction, pressing on a spot so sweet that she _drips_ , trickles over his fingers.

"Jaffar!" she moans, her eyes wide.

He chuckles into her neck; gently, he turns her face towards him and kisses the gasps from her mouth. "Better?" 

"Oh. God. Yes." She kisses him back and closes her eyes, then opens them again, looking into his. Bold with the newfound pleasure spreading inside of her, she resumes the game. She changes her voice, making it a little lower, a perfect imitation of a pageboy. "Please, master. Teach me." 

His eyes narrow with lust and his lips curl back from his teeth in a feral grin. "Oh, I will teach you. Gladly." 

His eyes flutter shut as he groans in delight, rocking himself in and out of her, and oh, it feels amazing. Her head falls onto the pillows and the gold and white embroideries blur into a haze as his cock sends shock after shock of pleasure rippling through her body. It's nothing like ordinary sex; it feels like she's falling apart, blasts of white light shooting through her from her guts, flashing brighter and brighter until she's blinded. She wants to break out of her skin, it's so impossible, the friction and the heat filling her until she's fit to burst. And yet, she needs more. She needs to burn with it, needs to be rubbed raw. Her hands claw at the sheets, rivulets of sweat sticking the brocade to her chest, the coarse fabric rubbing at her nipples and she cannot take it. She is too loud, too bold, too demanding for a pageboy as she keens out her need. 

"Please, master. More."

Growling low in his throat, Jaffar lifts her up and covers her, kicking her legs apart, forcing her onto her hands and knees. "More, you say?" he croons into her ear as he slowly lowers himself into a squat over her, sinking his cock deep inside her arse, making her _howl_. Inch by inch, he sinks deeper until he is buried in her completely. There, he stays, balls pressed tight against her swollen, wet sex, her fluids dripping in strings down her thighs. 

"I should take you like this every night." He reaches down, dipping his fingers into her wet folds to find her clitoris. "Oh," he chuckles in delight at her wetness; he starts to move his hips, trapping her between his rubbing fingers and his cock. "You enjoy it so much. Yes, I think I shall keep you," he hisses. "As my _catamite._ "

She is trembling underneath him, gulping for air, pressing into the slaps and rubs of his hand, her eyes rolling back in her head. She reels with the perfection of it, of what Jaffar is giving to her, his sweat stinging in the welts on her buttocks, his cock ramming mercilessly into her. She never knew, never knew she could be like this, never knew the depths of her own perversion until now. She never knew _he_ could be like this, that the beast in him would gaze upon her perversions and match them with his own with such delight; that her desire for sweet pain and surrender should be so utterly matched by his love for the whip and his desire to give her what she needs, take her as she needs to be taken. She cannot even form thoughts any longer; each breath, each rub, each thrust is coruscating through her until she's screaming, sobbing her release, shouting his name until she's hoarse. It is unlike any other pleasure she has ever known, leaving her utterly senseless as if she has left her body and gone beyond it, yet she is pulsing with ecstasy in her every cell.

Even when she is able to breathe again, her vision still dances with white lights as he fucks her, and she fucks him right back, desperate for more. When he shouts God's name and slams into her, spending himself inside her, she convulses again, pushing back on his cock, riding it hard, twisting and writhing herself to completion underneath him. She keeps rocking back onto him greedily, over and over again and wondering if she could ever stop until Jaffar finally collapses on top of her, groaning and gathering her into his arms.

He reels in her embrace, catching his breath, astonished, as if he cannot believe what he has just done, what _they_ have just done. When he finds his breath again, he strokes her cheek apologetically. "I'm sorry for hurting you."

She takes his hand and rests it upon her buttocks, pressing his palm into the welts it created. "Don't be." She kisses him slowly, relishing him, so full of love for him, stretching luxuriously in his arms and murmuring into his mouth with utter contentment. "I enjoyed being introduced to a new Jaffar."

He nuzzles her sweaty face, brushing their lips together, sighing with relief and joy. "When I first saw the young princess in my crystal, never did I think I would find myself with her like this. I married a chaste maiden and got myself a shameless wench." He makes a mock-indignant face. " _And_ a shameless youth into the bargain." 

She laughs at his stare. "And I got myself two Jaffars. If there are any more, you should introduce us so I could start a harem of my own," she says and wriggles in his arms.

"Naughty." He slaps her on the arse, and she gasps in delight. He raises his eyebrows at her reaction. "And still _insatiable!_ " 

"And whose fault might that be?" she teases, sitting up to straddle one of his thighs, rubbing herself lazily against it. "Are we expected at the palace tomorrow?"

He settles back on the pillows with a sigh of satisfaction, his arms crossed behind his head, enjoying the show. "Not for a few days yet."

She stretches her arms in utter relaxation and purrs. "Then you should have plenty of time to cast a spell; turn me into a boy. I should like that."

He slips a hand between her legs, rubbing the heel of it against her mound, shaking his head. "Never. I like this little cunny of yours too much."

She retaliates by oiling her palm and clasping his half-hard cock, stroking it, massaging it, making it red and shining and beautiful. She rides his fingers, loving the way his lashes flutter against his cheeks and his mouth falls open as he stirs into full arousal. Smiling mischievously, she straddles his hips and guides his cock between her buttocks. She takes a deep breath and pushes down, down, Jaffar's eyes snapping open as he realises what she's doing. 

"Oh." He sighs, reaching up to cup her breasts, scolding her gently. "I must protest. We will never get that dynasty started if my wife develops an addiction to sodomy."

"Too late." She rolls her hips, capturing his mouth with a kiss.

***  
END  
***

**Author's Note:**

> Extensive annotations (historical, etc.) for this series and my other medieval Persian fics can be found [here.](http://snowgrouse.livejournal.com/2165564.html) Annotations specific to this particular story can be found [here.](http://snowgrouse.livejournal.com/2166422.html)
> 
> Freely rebloggable Tumblr post for the illustration [here.](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/57315933938/my-my-arent-you-a-pretty-young-lad-he-lifts)


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